


The River Swum

by myownremedy



Series: More Like An Earthquake [2]
Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Happy Gay Farmers, Historical Inaccuracy, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Pansexual Character, Post-Canon, Rule 63, Tattoos, cisgirl!Esca, movie-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 06:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownremedy/pseuds/myownremedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens after Off The Map; Esca and Marcus learn how to live, trust, and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The River Swum

**Author's Note:**

> For [Lindsey.](motherfuckingsassmaster.tumblr.com)  
> Title comes from Richard Siken's The Long and Short of It. It's also a bit of a pun.  
> Quick notes: Esca is technically Esca Nic Cunoval in this, and her face claim is a tough and gritty Imogen Poots. Warnings for Underage because she’s 17 and Marcus is 30 when they enter into a relationship; however, it’s fully consensual and **she’s considered an adult in her culture.** Alternating point of view because I can. Timelines, what timelines? Basically this takes place in 141 AD and afterwards; see additional notes later. Historical accuracy is varying. Post Canon. Title from Richard Siken’s poem The Long and Short of It. Part II of More Like An Earthquake.  
>  disclaimer: the eagle isn't mine, esca isn't a girl, y'all fictional, no copyright infringement intended  
> edit (4-13-15): this is a transformative work. I make no money off of it. I do not own what inspired this work (The Eagle), but I do own this work itself and hold full copyright over it. Thank you.

_“You said if people wanted to change the world, they would. You said most people like it this way. Too bad for them, I say. I want something else. But you know how I am. I push too hard. I get ahead of myself. I keep ruining everything I touch by turning it into gold. But I’m learning how to be gentle…_

_So here you are, reading this, expecting something. A story perhaps, or someone singing themselves to sleep. You’re ready and I’m ready too. Have you been waiting long? …Here is a place for it to happen. A place where I can love you. The letter delivered, the year decembered, the river swum.”_  
― [Richard Siken](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/55349.Richard_Siken), _The Long And Short of It_ __

_Esca:_

If Esca hadn’t long ago made her peace with what had happened, with what it had cost her to find Marcus’s metal bird, the look on Placidus’s face would have _almost_ made it worth it. Almost.

They stride into the Governor office, still in their British clothes, Marcus trying and almost succeeding to hide his limp, Esca shaking her now long hair back from her face, and present the Eagle to a stunned group of politicians.

“For my father,” Marcus says and Esca is truly, absurdly grateful – though she hides it – because she’s glad he wasn’t doing it for Rome. Rome is not enough, does not deserve this. Marcus’s father, his family, his legacy – that is enough.

“My dear boy,” Claudius breathes, picking up the Eagle and cradling it with careful, reverent fingers. “I congratulate you! _Rome_ congratulates you! Your family’s good name is restored,” and Marcus relaxes at that, making Esca smile briefly at him, though he cannot see it.

“The Senate will want to reform the Ninth,” Claudius says and Marcus stills like a hunted deer, or perhaps a pointing hound, focusing intently on his words. “Perhaps they will award you with its leadership.”

That is the worst kind of tease, and Esca wants to grip Marcus’s arm. He will never march again, never be able to meet the demands of the legion. But Claudius doesn’t know that, and if it is up to Marcus, he will never know that.

“How ever did you do it?” Claudius asks.

Placidus chimes in, “With only a slave to help you,” and Esca doesn’t even have time to react, because Marcus turns to glower at him, and Placidus actually backs up a step; Marcus is a full head and shoulders taller than him, and out weighs him by at least fifty pounds.

“She’s not a slave,” he barks and Esca closes her eyes briefly – her masquerade is done forever, it seems – “And she knows more about honor and freedom than you ever will.”

Esca feels her face warm, but she meets the gazes of the men defiantly. Marcus turns and walks away, brushing her arm with his fingers, but she lingers, and then favors the men with a wolf’s smile, a taunting baring of teeth.

She is only seventeen, after all, and well within her rights to tell them, silent but not unheard, _take that!_

Her gazes lingers the longest on Placidus and the joke leaves her smile; now she is glaring at him. He flushes and fidgets beneath her glare and she knows that her message has been received, so she whirls and tries to match Marcus’s pace.

 

He waits until they’re on the road, back to his uncle’s house, before pausing and turning to face her.

She halts as well, wondering what it is now, wondering why he has stopped. They have travelled from across the wall down to Cavella and she is dirty and tired and impatient; she wants to take a bath and sleep and eat an entire roast boar.

By the set of Marcus’s jaw and the way he’s crossing his arms, however, it’s clear that she has explaining to do. So she beats him too it.

“Why’d you tell them I was a girl?” She demands, matching him for posture and stance, and they stand in the middle of the road glaring at each other, both dressed in filthy braccae and tunics, Esca’s hair falling like a curtain down her back.

Marcus is caught off guard, but only for a minute. “They’ll want to make you a citizen, to award you for bringing back the Eagle. It’s only right that they grant it to Esca Nic Cunoval, not someone who doesn’t exist.”

“You didn’t think to ask my permission?” She snaps, and Marcus has the grace to look ashamed. His ears go read and he drags one foot through the dirt, fidgeting without actually fidgeting.

She tries to gentle her voice. “Now that I’m no longer your slave, you have to give me the allotted respect – and not the limited respect you give your women. Have I not proved myself to you?”

“Yes, Esca, of course, a thousand times over!” Marcus bursts out. “Mithras bless it, you are more deserving of respect than any man I have ever met, Roman or Briton. I just…” he falters, biting his lip, and Esca resists the urge to go to him, to comfort him, to reach up and smooth a hand over his neck. “I just don’t… You _lied_ to me, Esca. For months!”

“Would you believe me if I told you that it was nothing personal?” Esca asks, trying to gentle her voice even further. She takes a step forward and Marcus looks up, meets her eyes steadily, even though his cheeks are mottled red and he is panting.

“It’s – I didn’t mean to lie for so long,” she says, quiet, and for a minute the only sound is Marcus’s hoarse breathing and the buzzing of insects. Dusk is falling and Esca knows they should not be out on the road this late, standing in the middle and having a heart-to-heart, but she’s made Marcus wait long enough.

“It’s… it’s _safer_ for me as a boy, as a man,” she tries to explain.

“I would never hurt you!” Marcus bursts out. “I would never – would never _think_ of dishonoring you in that way! Surely you must know that.”

“I was a slave for two years before you purchased me,” Esca says steadily. “I was captured when I was thirteen.”

“And they never knew?” Marcus asks, incredulous, and Esca shakes her head.

“It was not my choice, Marcus,” she says finally, dully.

The battle, the way her choice was made _for_ her, is flashing before her eyes – her mother’s cut throat, the warriors of her tribes screaming, the clash of steel, and then the images morph into the battle they had just fought, the one that Esca had fought in on the Romans’ behalf.

“Please do not ask me anymore,” she pleads, and she’s shaking, though she tries to hide it. “I cannot – it is too painful.”

“Esca, forgive me,” Marcus whispers, and he wraps his cloak around her, pinning it with his brooch. She shivers still so he wraps an arm around her and guides her down the road, to his Uncle’s villa. They walk in silence, tension between them forgotten, and Esca wishes it could always be thus.

\---

The next day, Esca goes to see Uncle Aquila. She is dressed in a tunic and half braccae, but the tunic is linen and drapes like silk; it reveals her lie for her.

Uncle Aquila takes one look at her and his eyebrows go up in surprise, and Esca smiles at him, shy and unsure.

“That certainly explains a lot,” is all the older Aquila says, and Esca nods. “Please, Esca – if that is your name? – please, sit.”

“You are not angry,” Esca keeps her voice quiet as she sits at the table opposite him. Uncle Aquila puts down his quill and regards her thoughtfully, blue eyes keen beneath his bushy white brows.

“You brought Marcus back alive,” he says simply. “You had no reason too, but you brought him back alive, and aided him in getting the Eagle. How can I be angry at you?”

“I gave him my word,” her voice is stubborn and Uncle Aquila smiles broadly.

“The word of a Briton – of a slave – has never mattered before,” his tone is matter a fact and Esca nods, because she knows this. “But this time, it did, and I am all the happier for it.”

“Your nephew freed me,” she tells him, and he nods.

“Quite rightly, too,” he scratches his thick white beard and Esca hides a smile, for his beard rivals any British Chieftains’. “I expect Rome will want to make you a citizen – but who should I tell them to give the citizenship too?” His eyes are clear, and perhaps he sees more than Esca gives him credit for, because he adds: “It is a simple matter to tell them that you are Esca Mac Cunoval. Simpler, and safer.”

“You understand far more than Marcus,” Esca mumbles. “But he announced to your Governor that I am female; I expect the citizen-plaque will say Esca Nic Cunoval and I will have to live with it.”

“My nephew has always had trouble untangling his head from his heart,” is all Uncle Aquila says, and Esca feels herself turn pink and looks away, unsure of what to do with that.

“He’ll come around,” Uncle Aquila says gently. “Besides – I seem to remember reading Tacitus – a historian – who recounted that your tribe was led, once, by a woman, and that she almost defeated us.”

“Yes,” Esca admits after a moment, thinking back. “My great grandmother, on my father’s side.” If she’s talking about it in terms of history, of lineage, thinking of her father’s doesn’t hurt – but she wonders, quiet and painful, if she can still claim her British Ancestry, after what she has done for Marcus.

“If your great grandmother lead your tribe, why can’t my nephew accept you as both a warrior and a woman?” Uncle Aquila asks; his tone is idle but his eyes are sharp, and Esca shrugs.

“Think about it,” He advises. “I will lend my copy of Tacitus’s _Histories_ to Marcus. Perhaps he will see sense.”

 

But Marcus doesn’t see sense, and things grow tense between them – Esca takes to avoiding him, unsure that she likes what she sees in his eyes, in his face.

She spends time in the stables, gentling the young horses there. His uncle is an Equestrian, and has many horses to show for it; he offers to hire her and she shakes her head, stating that he pays her with food and shelter, and that is quite enough for her.

He gives her a horse anyway.

When her citizen plaque comes, Marcus brings it to her in the stables, and he has a wad of cloth slung over one arm.

“Marcus?” Esca hates the way her voice shakes, hates how nervous Marcus looks, but then he holds out her citizen plaque and she takes, gingerly, like it’s a mad dog or a coiled snake.

“You are a citizen now,” he tells her quietly. “I do not know if the Senate has overlooked your sex or not, but as you have no family in Rome, you are in charge of your own fate.”

The plaque is suddenly heavier in her hands and she clutches it, afraid it will slip from her fingers.

Marcus offers her the cloth – it’s folded, she sees, and he looks at her steadily.

“What is it?” she hates her ignorance, but surely it is enough that she speaks Latin – does she really have to know their culture, too?

“It’s a stola,” Marcus explains. “You are permitted to wear it now.” He hesitates, steps closer. “It’s what female citizens wear.”  
“Can I not just wear this?” Esca asks, plucking at her braccae and light summer tunic. Marcus flushes.

“It is not fit for a citizen – a lady – to do the work of a slave,” he mumbles, “or to wear the garb of one.”

Esca’s temper snaps.

“I do the work of a free woman,” she hisses at him, walking out of the barn so she won’t upset the horses. “This is honorable work, fit for an honorable woman, a woman who earned her freedom. I care not for your Roman standards and your Roman garb!”

“Esca, please,” Marcus says quietly, interrupting her. “I am sorry, I did not mean to insult you – I meant only to explain. This…” He trails off, indicating the stola in his arms. “It was meant to be a gift.”

_Oh._

“I – I thank you,” Esca’s voice falters and she steps closer, brushing one hand over the woolen cloth. It is very fine and she flushes, looking up at Marcus’s embarrassed face.

“Forgive me,” she whispers. “I did not mean to yell at you – I did not realize it was a gift. I am sorry.”

Marcus nods, cheeks mottled red like they always are when he’s angry or embarrassed, and he rubs the back of his neck with one hand. Esca’s fingers twitch; she wishes to comfort him, to soothe him as she would a nervous horse, but it is not her place.

“We are having a dinner, to celebrate your citizenship,” Marcus explains awkwardly. “It is customary for you to wear a stola to such an event, but if you do not want to –”

“No, of course I will,” Esca bites her lip and finally lays a small hand on Marcus’s arm, making Marcus freeze. She can feel the thunder of his pulse beneath her thumb and she smiles gently at him.

“Thank you, Marcus,” she repeats and he nods, jerky and uncomfortable, so she steps back, removing her hand.

He exhales heavily and she wonders what is wrong, if she repulses him or if there is something that she thought she understood, but doesn’t at all.

“I will see you tonight,” she says, and he nods and presses the stola into her hands, leaving her staring after him.

 

She gets the cook to assist her with the stola; it is fine wool and wraps around her, held in place by two belts. The belts and the folds of the cloth give her the illusion of curves and the cook helps Esca pin up her unruly hair, and then holds up a polished silver mirror.

Esca scowls at her reflection – surely she looks like a child trying to place dress up – but the cook smiles at her fondly.

“You look beautiful, Lady Esca,” and she flushes and says _no, please call me Esca, thank you for all your help_ before heading to the dining room.

Marcus, and Uncle Aquila, are waiting for her, both dressed in their togas. Esca has wrapped Marcus in a tunic before and thinks she prefers the stola; at least there are belts to hold it in place.

Uncle Aquila smiles when he sees her, and she smiles back, forgetting that she looks like a fancy pony. But Marcus’s face – his eyes are wide and he’s biting his lip, and he can’t look at her for longer than two seconds – reminds her immediately.

They get through dinner like that, Esca concentrating on not spilling anything on her stola and Uncle Aquila doing most of the talking. Marcus keeps looking at her and then looking away, and finally she barks at him: “What?!”

“Nothing,” he says, and Esca scowls at him. Uncle Aquila has fallen silent; she notices, distantly, that he’s watching the two of them intently.

“Did I put it on wrong?” She demands. “Is there a reason you’re staring at me?”

“You – you look nice, is all,” he manages, flushing, and Esca wishes, just this once, that Marcus was better with words.

“Oh,” she mumbles. “Well – just tell me that, then. Don’t stare at me. I thought – never mind.”

Marcus looks down at the table and then stands, suddenly – and he bows, to both her and his uncle.

“Forgive me, Uncle, Esca. May I be excused?”

“Marcus,” Uncle Aquila says, “are you sure?” but Marcus is already striding away.

Esca stares down at her plate of fish, eyes burning, the stola suffocating her.

“Esca,” Uncle Aquila’s voice is soft. “He’ll come around.”

 _To what?_ She asks him silently; instead she nods, unable to voice her confusion. Uncle Aquila is friendly, but he is not Marcus, and only Marcus has ever managed to make Roman behavior and customs make sense to her. Of course it is he that is acting strangely, and she cannot ask him about it.

 

He finds her in the courtyard, staring blankly at the horizon. She only looks up when she hears his footsteps, and there Marcus is, regarding her with an unreadable expression.

“I am sorry if I upset you,” he tells her and she shakes her head once. She has ripped out the pins from her hair and it falls loose around her face and down her back; impatient, she pushes it behind her shoulders.

“I am leaving,” she tells him, but does not look at him, does not want to see any spasms of pain or betrayal. “This – this Roman thing, this citizenship thing – it’s not for me.” She tugs on the stola, awkward, and wishes she could just take it off.

His sharp intake of breath makes her heart hurt, makes her clench her hands, but she does not look up. Eventually he sits down next to her.

“Where will you go?” He asks, voice heavy and dark, and she wishes he would not do this, wishes he was not so upset.

“I do not know,” it’s honest; in fact, she hadn’t realized she was going to leave until she announced it to him. “Perhaps to the land of my tribe. I just – I don’t belong here, Marcus.”

“I wish…I wish you did,” he mumbles, looking down at the ground. “I wish you would stay with – with me.”

“Oh, Marcus,” Esca murmurs, and she puts a hand over his and squeezes before she can stop herself. “Forgive me.”

\---

This time, there is no promise of _I will return_ ; she folds the stola and leaves it on the bed, slipping into her tunic and braccae and fastening a cloak around her shoulders. Her hair she ties back with a leather thong, hoping she can pass as a man even with it long and curly, and then she heads to the stables and saddles up her colt.

Truthfully, she doesn’t have a plan, or any idea of what to do, but she falls back into pattern of travelling with ease. She belongs _here_ , riding over the moor, camping in a thicket of gorse and bathing in icy springs. It’s easy to hunt, to trade pelts for food and coin, and no one gives her trouble. She wonders if she passes as a boy or if the sword at her hip, and the bow and arrows slung over her back, discourage them.

When her bleeding comes, she panics; she buys a room at the inn and demands bandages, claiming an old injury was acting up.

Her bleeding is late; she knows this, wonders if it came because she is finally at peace. Her father’s bond-knife is tucked into her belt and she clutches it’s bone handle and thinks of her mother, of her grandmother, chewing on the inside of her cheeks so she will not cry out in pain.

She stays in her room for five days, taking meals there. On the sixth day it stops, finally, and she flees, burning the bloody bandages and riding her colt as far away from that town as possible.

Only at the next town does she undo her hair and shrug off her cloak, displaying herself as female; she goes to the baths and washes herself, and thinks of her tribe.

The moon-blood marks her a woman, and she had watched her cousin go through this, watched the women of the tribe bestow her gifts and decorate her belly and breasts with woad. There was even a feast, for mothers were regarded holy in their culture – how could they not be, when they were named for Brigantia?

But her tribe is gone – her cousin lies dead, surely only bones now, and Esca bites her lip and sinks lower in the water, trying to hold back tears.

She gets no gifts, no paint, no prayers or celebrations. She gets to fear anyone finding out she is a woman, with only her colt for company.

\---

It’s only after several months, when she reaches her tribe’s territory, reaches the Isurium and sees a man and his wife – both British, by the look of them, Selgovae perhaps – walking along the road, that she knows what she wants.

The man and woman’s arms are decorated in swirling blue ink and Esca thinks of all that has happened since she received her own tattoos, thinks of what they mean, and how to immortalize what happened over the wall.

“Hail,” she says in Celtic, pulling up her horse and offering them a smile, and they look at her and smile back; she is Brigante, it is clear as day, and thus they pause to speak to her.

“I was admiring your tattoos,” she says after they have exchanged pleasantries. “It is rare to see such beautiful work anymore – not with the Roman occupation here.”

The woman smiles at her. “Aye,” she says. “It was done by my brother, Bil; he lives south of town, in the forest. Tell him Ilsa sent you, and you will be welcomed.”

“Thank you,” Esca breathes and kicks her colt into a canter.

 

It takes her a while to find this man, but she presses on. His name is Bil, just like Liathan’s brother was, and Esca, while not particularly religious, takes that as a sign.

In the end it is her colt that finds him; he whickers, loud, in the middle of a glen and an answering whinny leads them to a round hut. A man – Bil? – is sitting in front, whittling, but at Esca’s approach he stands. A sword lies within easy reach, and Esca raises her hands and spreads her fingers, trying to indicate she is no threat.

“Hail, Bil,” she says in Celtic. “I am Esca, daughter of Cunoval, slain chief of the Brigantes. Ilsa, your sister, sent me to you.”

He regards her with eyes as hawkish and shrewd as her own and she meets his gaze, proud and haughty. If word of her deeds has spread beyond the wall, she is dead; but he seems to approve of her, for he motions for her to dismount.

“How can I help you, Lady Esca?” He asks when she stands before him, clutching her cloak around her.

“I am a citizen of Rome now,” she confesses; the artists who tattoo are always easy to talk to, always listen without judgment. “But I was a slave, and I am the sole survivor of the fall of my tribe.”

She tells him everything, tells him of Marcus and her vow, tells him of the Eagle and honor and how she became a hound and a wolf. She even tells him about Liathan, dry eyed, but tears up when she tells him about Bil.

“And that is why I came to you,” she says, wiping her eyes impatiently with the back of her hand. “It’s a sign, it must be.”

She tells him about being hunted, about holding Marcus close to her so she could hear his heartbeat, about how they nested down like rabbits who fear the dogs in a thicket of gorse. She tells him about how Marcus almost drowned and how her heart flew into her throat and stayed there until she slapped life into him

Haltingly, she tells him about leaving Marcus behind, about how she ran across river and stone and heather and moor for him, how the army marched behind her and how they fought.

And she tells him of bringing the Eagle back, of delivering it, and all that happened afterwards.

Bil listens in silence, moving only to pet a small grey cat when it wanders up to him and butts it’s head against his leg, and Esca fidgets but keeps talking until there is nothing left to say.

“That’s quite a story,” Bil says when she finishes, and his accent is as familiar to her as her own. “It deserves to be written on your skin, Miss Esca.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “I have no eye for this kind of thing – I’m good with weapons, with tracks or with horses, not with art.”

“I hear you are good at loyalty and honor too,” Bil says and she feels herself flush, thinking of Liathan.

“Not all see it as you do,” but it’s so incredibly nice that he sees it like that; he understands that she did what she had to do to keep her vow, her honor.

 

She strips to the waist without shame – this is a holy thing – and looks down at the tools, so similar to what her grandfather had used. A mallet. Needles. A vial of ink.

It is slow going, the needles pricking her and the ink burning, and eventually everything falls away until she is staring at the wall of the hut and not really seeing it, concentrating on breathing, anchored only by the small bursts of pain she feels and the lingering soreness.

Under Bil’s hands, the design grows, and grows, and grows, and when he finally steps back and rests a hand on the forearm he did not tattoo, Esca blinks and comes back to herself.

She doesn’t know what it looks like, only knows that swirls cover her right arm and the right side of her back, twisting up as far as her neck and ear, across her shoulders, and down to link with her previous armbands on her left arm, the ones she had gotten at ages twelve and thirteen respectively.

“Thank you,” she says as he bandages her, wiping away any smears of blood.

He nods, looking exhausted. She wonders how long it has been, how many hours that took.

“If you look closely,” he says quietly, “you will find all parts of your story there.”

She twists, trying to look at her back; she can see a river and what looks like the wings of a hawk, or an eagle, but when she blinks it’s only swirling blue lines.

He helps her put her tunic back on and fasten her cloak around her. She aches, the ink setting in deep, and she knows she will be sore for many days.

“Esca,” Bil says as she mounts up. “Your Marcus. Does he know?”

“Know what?” she’s tired and sore and has no idea what the man is talking about, but his dark eyes catch and hold hers, and strangely she thinks of Guern.

“Does he know that you love him?”

The breath leaves her lungs, like he has punched her, and Esca thinks about denying it, but she knows that it is surely tattooed across her skin, written in blue ink for anyone to see – _This is the story of a slave who swore an oath of honor to her master, and fell in love with him._

“No,” her voice is so soft that she almost doesn’t hear herself. But how can she explain to Bil that until he said it, she didn’t know herself?

 

Perhaps love has a particular shape, a particular feeling, but Esca has strived to turn her heart to stone and will away all feelings because for a long time, they were too painful. So she is ignorant, and she has carried around this glowing burden, with heavy shape of fondness, and not known what to call it; a shape that scares her so much her first instinct is to hit instead of kiss.

She imagines smoothing her hand from Marcus’s head to the base of his spine and shivers, wanting that more than anything, wanting so many things she has no words for.

“No,” she says again, and thinks _love_ , savoring the taste of it, trying to wrap it around the glowing burden inside of her. “No, he doesn’t know.”

\---

_Marcus:_

The morning after Esca leaves, Marcus wakes up and thinks, _she’s gone and taken my happiness with her._

He mopes – there is no kind term for it – and his Uncle lets him, only interrupting him to press a volume of Tacitus’s _Histories_ into his hands.

Part of it is about the Brigantes – Esca’s tribe – and for a while Marcus cannot bear to read it. It sits on his bedside table and mocks him, and he imagines that it knows the fears of his heart.

He passes time by imagining what Esca is doing, imagines her riding through a forest or across a moor, imagining her meeting up with her kin, with people like her.

Jealously always flashes through him, as hot as wildfire, and he has to redirect his thoughts. But they always come back to her – to the way she held him, her body pressed against his, her arms around him. To the way she smelled, sweet like the moor’s wind, like purple heather and wild thistle. To her hair, now a little ways down her back and curly, golden fair like wheat, like the sun.

He’s in love with her, he realizes, and it shames him; he is thirty and she is barely seventeen, and she could never love him – she could never love a Roman.

Sometimes he dreams that she does love him, that it was not only honor that prompted her to betray everything she knew so she could reunite him with the Eagle; maybe that’s why she kept him alive. But truth hits him like the cold air of dawn and he shudders away from it.

Eventually it is easier not to dream, not to think about it. Instead he waits.

He allows himself to mope for exactly a month, and then goes to his Uncle and says, “It’s time I made something of myself, instead of living off your generosity.”

His uncle regards him with sympathetic blue eyes and Marcus rubs the back of his neck, flushed and uncomfortable.

“Oh, Marcus,” he says quietly. “You are welcome to stay as long as you like.”

“I thank you,” Marcus’s throat is dry and he swallows, hard. “But I need – I need to do something. I need a distraction.”

“You don’t think she’s coming back,” his Uncle says, clear and concise as ever, and Marcus slumps, bowing his head.

“I _know_ she’s not coming back. She’s not – she’s not meant to be a Roman, Uncle. She’s meant to be a Briton.”

“Did you read the _Histories_?” His uncle asks, and Marcus shakes his head, not understanding why it would matter.

“Take with you,” his Uncle says. “It may give you some answers.” He moves forward and engulfs Marcus in a hug; Marcus hugs back, awkwardly.

“I will miss you,” his Uncle says into his shoulder, and Marcus nods.

\---

He buys a horse farm north and far east of Cavella. It is in disrepair and Marcus takes it in, the broken, rotting fences and the half-built barn, the little round hut and the patchy fields, and wonders about hiring some help.

But he doesn’t; he goes to work everyday and strips down to his braccae, mending fences and tilling the soil, planting ‘til his back aches.

His Uncle had gifted him with three fine horses; two mares and a stallion, and Marcus thinks of his Celtic stallion and then of Esca, and resolves to think no more.

At nights he reads the _Histories_ by candlelight, curled up on a pallet just as he did in his soldiering days. The book recounts the tale of the fierce Cartimandua, Queen of the Brigantes; she rebelled against Rome and almost won.

He wonders if the Brigantes have a habit of female warriors, or if some spirits are meant for war no matter what is between their legs. He reads the descriptions of Cartimandua – _fierce and silver eyed, with long curling fair hair_ – and thinks of Esca, thinks of her red mouth and fierce eyes and small, clever hands.

To his shame he pleasures himself to the memory of her more than once, though the memories vary. He remembers how safe he felt, kneeling at her feet in the Seal Village; he remembers how she held him, her breasts pressed against his back; he remembers how she put a hand on the back of neck to guard him in his sleep, and he groans and comes messily over his own hand.

It is his secret shame, that he desires her, a girl only a bit more than half his age; it is a deeper shame that he wishes to kneel at her feet, her hand on his neck, for the rest of his days.

 _Submission_ is a word people usually use to talk about wolves, but Marcus thinks it fits – and Esca is like a wolf anyway, a dominant wolf, an alpha wolf.

He throws the words around in his mind, even conjures up a scenario using them – _Esca dominating me, me submitting to Esca –_ and his orgasm is so great that he whites out, cock jerking in his hand.

\---

Fall comes, as sudden as sleep, and Marcus watches his crops grow tall and tries to decide if he should harvest them in the month of Septemus or if he should wait until the month that honors Caesar Octavian.

He waits until the later, collecting his harvest and does his best to preserve them. One of his mares is pregnant now and he visits her often, soothes her by rubbing her flanks and her swollen belly.

When the autumn days shorten and the wolves grow hungry, Marcus takes to hunting, setting up snares in the forest on his property and fishing in the river that runs through it. He is an inexperienced farmer, old to be learning for the first time, and injured to boot, so he only scrapes a meager living – but it’s enough.

At night he goes to sleep feeling tired and very satisfied, smoked fish hanging from his rafters, apples filling their baskets and various other food stored away.

\---

Marcus sees Esca everywhere; it is automatic, to think of her, to see the curve of her neck in the curve of a sapling, to see the grey of river-rocks and think of her eyes. When he collects his wheat he thinks of her hair, and when he sees the storm clouds, round and heavy on the horizon, he thinks of poetic things, like _love_ and _loss_ and _don’t forget me._

When the rains come and he bundles up in his round hut, clutching his cloak around his shoulders, he thinks about _I will return_ and thinks about the coldness of the river and how he tried to believe in that but failed, how he believed that Esca had left him forever.

Sometimes he thinks about love and the enormity of it, something that makes him think, too, of thunderclouds; they cannot possibly hold the rain and so they weep, and maybe he’s a thundercloud. These foolish, poetic thoughts steal into his head late at night, mixed in with past regrets _why did I give her a stola why did I think she’d like that?_ and images – Liathan, dipping his head to fit his lips over Esca’s, only to be rebuffed.

That is a mystery Marcus will never stop wondering about, because Liathan loved Esca in a half-aborted way that was all about protection and fascination with this strange girl-boy child, weak but fierce, smart enough to trick a Roman into being her slave but not smart enough to die when her tribe did.

He finds it funny that he has clarity on these things months after they happened; he can remember the burning rage and the slow loss of hope that he felt when he saw Liathan courting Esca, can remember the sudden painful flare of want and need and yes, hope again, when Esca turned her face away and rejected Liathan’s advances.

Maybe she knew that he did not love her for herself but what he thought her to be, and Marcus thinks that is his problem as well; he offered her the stola and was amazed and enraptured and repulsed when she appeared in it.

But there are so many Escas he knows; _Esca,_ who was asking for death in the arena; _Esca_ , bruised and bloody and male and his slave; _Esca,_ guiding him through the barrenness of Caledonia; _Esca,_ staring up at him with wide grey eyes when his hand cupped her breast; _Esca_ , female and fierce and proud, his master, tugging him to his knees with a hand in his hair; _Esca,_ clutching him close and saying _Don’t be afraid; Esca,_ appearing in a stola and looking like a lady; _Esca,_ leaving without the promise of _I will return._

He doesn’t really know her at all, only knows her in many different forms, doesn’t know her as Esca the woman or Esca the man, and he never had a chance to get to know Esca the citizen as opposed to Esca, his slave.

It hurts.

\---

He manages to finish building the barn right before winter hits, ensuring his horses stay warm; Marcus worries about the pregnant mare, though she is as sweet as ever, and he names her Helena. The other mare is Lucia, and the stallion he names Metellus after Guern.

(He has trouble thinking of him as Lucius Caius Metellus, but that was how he died and that is how Marcus wishes to remember him; he knows, however, that Guern would have preferred his Selgovae name.)

Marcus hopes, eventually, to get some Celtic breeding stock; Roman horses are good for their stamina but the Celtic ponies are swift and sturdy, and he wishes to create a hybrid of the two.

When the first snows hit, Marcus holes himself up in his hut and builds a fire as high as he can. There is a queer satisfaction in being able to survive on hard work and sweat; he eats smoked fish and preserved boar or rabbit, boils a turkey he killed and some vegetables to create a crude stew, and reads whatever books his Uncle has sent him.

They are his companions, these books; he was educated as a child but not as a soldier, and eventually his knowledge of academia returns, along with his ability to read and understand Greek. That winter he pours over _The Iliad,_ losing himself in the adventure; he feels his bitterness fade, and wonders if his soldier’s mark will ever fade with it.

The sky of winter is swollen and blue, like the ink that snakes up around Esca’s left arm, and Marcus closes his eyes to the first snow flurries and thinks of her. The wind blows, harsh against his skin and he smells wild thistle and the moors – a wind from across the wall, then – and he aches.

 

That winter is a hard one, and more than once he offers travellers comfort; many of them are Britons and are uncomfortable, but the fact he dresses in the British manner and speaks clumsy but passible Celtic wins their trust.

It is mostly the Selgovae that pass through his property, though once he meets a man who claims to be half Brigante and half Selgovae, and he asks if the man is related to Cunoval; the man shakes his head and Marcus wonders if Esca knows that she has half-kin in these parts.

One night, late in winter, he takes in a man named Bil who has eyes as large and shrewd as a bird’s, and the man draws him into conversation.

“I have heard of you,” the man reveals. “You’re the one that retrieved the Eagle,” and Marcus gapes at him, because why would a Celt – a Selgovae, no less – care?

“A man adopted by the Selgovae helped me,” Marcus says after a minute, thinking to tell him about Guern, but Bil interrupts.

“As did a Brigantes lass, did she not?” and Marcus’s mouth goes dry. He wonders if he is a dead man, if the Seal People have circulated that story, but Bil is smiling at him; it is a queer smile, but a friendly one.

“I have already had the honor of meeting Esca Nic Cunoval,” Bil says after a long, tense moment. The fire flickers over his face, casting him half and shadow, and Marcus hopes the screeching of the wind will drown out his stuttering heart and his half-choked breathes. “I am doubly honored to meet Marcus Aquila.”

“You – you’ve met Esca?” Marcus demands, and Bil nods, a small frown creasing his features. “How is she? Is she well? Is she safe?”

“Aye, she was well,” Bil says after a minute, “and as beautiful as they say her mother was. But I suppose I was mistaken in guessing her intentions.”

Marcus doesn’t dare ask what those intentions were; he pokes at the fire, desperate for something to do, ducking his head so Bil cannot see his face.

“I wish her the best,” he says finally, says it to say something, to break the silence, and hears a small huff of laughter.

“Sometimes a wolf has to set out on her own in order to remember where she belongs,” is all Bil says, and Marcus blinks at him, because he knows.

Esca belongs among the tribes, in the wild – not in Caledonia, but perhaps among the Selgovae, or another southern tribe.

 Her time with Marcus proved that; she is not meant to be a Roman, not meant to be a hound to lay at his feet.

She is a river, a hawk, a wolf – wild, and he cannot deny her that.

\---

In the spring, Esca proves him wrong.

 

He is gentling Helena’s colt, running his hands over the foal’s flanks and legs, getting him used to Marcus’s touch, when a voice says:

“You’ve become quite the Equestrian.”

Marcus freezes and the colt – named Aodh, which is Celtic for Fire and is Marcus’s favorite Celtic word – lips at his fingers, curious about the ring on his pinky.

He straightens and turns, as if in a dream, and there is Esca, leaning a hip against the fence and watching him with her shrewd silver eyes. She is clutching the reins of her horse – she had named him Duff for his coloring – in one hand but appears relaxed otherwise.

“Esca,” he breathes, taking a step towards the fence, towards _her_. “Esca. What – what are you doing here?”

She bares her teeth at him in a friendly grin, showing she hadn’t taken offense, hadn’t taken his words wrong.

“I thought you could use some help on your farm,” she says, and _Mithras,_ Marcus has missed her voice. “Originally I went to your Uncle’s Villa, in Cavella, but you weren’t there.”

“No,” he agrees. “I left a month after you did.”

“By the time I learned this, there was a blizzard and it was unsuited for travelling, so I had to wait.”

He stares at her, drinking in the sight of her, focusing on the blue swirls on her right arm and neck, revealed by her sleeveless Tunic. There’s added ink on her left arm and he wonders what it means, if the ink connects, and how much it hurt.

Her hair is longer; it brushes the middle of her back now, and falls loose around her face. But her face is the same – fierce yet gentle, and for once, completely open to him.

He opens the gate and goes to her, pausing half a stride from her and prompting her to hold out her hand, which he clasps in both of his.

“I have missed you,” he admits in a whisper, and she smiles up at him, eyes dark and happy.

“As I have missed you,” she says. “Marcus – forgive me. I was wrong. I do not belong as a Roman Citizen, but I – I belong with you. If you’ll have me,” and he nods, breathless, so happy, because at long last she has returned to him.

It is only later, when she is sleeping on his pallet and he is stretched out in front of the fire, that he remembers Bil’s words.

_Sometimes a wolf has to set out on her own in order to remember where she belongs._

This time, he thinks he truly understands, and it makes him smile to himself in hope.

\---

Having Esca on the farm makes it easier. She is an expert with the horses, and manages to breed Duff to Lucia, so Lucia is pregnant and Aodh is coming along, all legs and hindquarters. Marcus is better with manual labor, better in the fields, and sends Esca to hunt instead of allowing her to help him.

But even if the harvest had gone badly, he would not have minded. Running a farm, though a challenge, is such a little thing when compared to being hunted by the Seal People, and he survived that with Esca by his side. Surely he can survive this.

They eat well, due to Esca’s hunting and Marcus’s refusal to be ripped off at the markets, and Esca finally loses the skinny, hunted look that she has had the entire time Marcus has known her.

She fills out, slender but shapely, and Marcus had to stop himself from looking at her, feeling his face grow hot whenever her tunic presses against her breasts, or her braccae pull tight over her ass.

 

At night, he tells her stories of his time in the army, even showing her his soldier’s mark; she laughs at him, because it’s such a small tattoo, and offers both her arms for his inspection.

She returns by telling him as her time as a slave, and he begins to understand. It makes sense, when she tells it – her father allowed her to fight after extracting the promise that she would commit suicide if caught, but she was never given the chance. Her captors saw her short hair and slender frame and mistook her for a boy, and she hung onto the masquerade, first to avenge her parents, later to simply survive.

“They never made you strip,” Marcus asks one evening, eyebrows raised, and Esca shakes her head. “Your masters never made advances towards you?”

“I discouraged that,” she says with her wolf-like smile and it is his turn to shake his head.

“Your Goddess must have been looking after you,” is all he says, and Esca shrugs.

“I got lucky, I guess,” she says, and then smiles. “Until I lost my temper one day and attacked my Master.”

“That was an unfortunate way to find out,” Marcus agrees, his face growing hot, and Esca opens her mouth to say something else, but doesn’t.

It’s tense after that, and Marcus wonders if he should apologize – _I am so sorry for accidentally groping you while I was trying to punch you, it was never my intention to dishonor you –_ but refrains, sensing, somehow, that it will make things worse.

 

Then, one day, Esca kisses him.

He’s leaning against the crude fence and watching Aodh prance around, all legs and arched neck, a burst of flame against the silent green landscape, when he feels her tiny hand on his arm, soft, like she’s shy, like she’s unsure.

He can see his face reflected in her grey eyes – how the corner of his mouth curves up, because he is never not happy when looking at Esca – and then she’s standing on tiptoes and pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth, and then to the center.

 _“Esca_ ,” he breathes; she clings to him for balance and he leans into the kiss, hesitant in a way he’s never been before, unsure of everything he has ever taken in fact, because he wants to learn this kiss, wants to cling to it, wants to be able to remember it.

Timid, tentative – everything that does not befit a soldier – he opens his mouth, licking into her mouth until she is responding. One hand moves to cup her face, the other presses against the small of her back and she melts against him, supple and graceful like a cat.

“Esca,” he whispers when she draws back, and he’s panting and bright red, but she doesn’t seem to notice, just noses a kiss beneath his ear, drags her teeth teasingly over his jawline. He shudders, thinks about enormous, impossible things – he can hear the crash of the ocean against the shore in her breathing – and whispers, “Is this okay?”

She draws back and nods, but she’s only seventeen and he’s afraid it’s a passing infatuation, afraid she wanted to see what it was like, so he presses a kiss to her mouth and demands: “Tell me you want this.”

It comes out more like a plea, like a prayer and he thinks _why do you pray_ and remembers asking her what guides her: _my eyes, my heart._

 _Let your heart guide you to me_ he thinks, and she breathes back against his lips: “I want this” and he thinks that somewhere, fate is smiling at him.

 

Later, when he’s leaning his hoe against the wall of their hut, Esca stands and watches him, holding a dark green cloak around her. He cannot help but look at her, with her long curling hair down her back and her red mouth pressed together like she’s thinking.

He cannot help but look at her, now that he knows what that mouth tastes like, what it feels like.

“Marcus,” she says suddenly and he turns to face her fully. He wonders if this is when she says that she doesn’t want this, if this is where his heart will be as empty as the pine and aspen forests that the wolves wander through, but she looks confused, and afraid – not stony, not cold.

“You do not mind?” Esca asks hesitantly. “That – that I’m a girl, that I’m not who I was? That I lied to you all that time?”

Marcus thinks back to late fall, when he had concluded that he doesn’t know Esca, or maybe he knows too many Esca’s. “I would love you no matter what gender you are,” it’s painfully honest, the words dropping like stones, but he knows that it’s true, and maybe it’s the right thing to say. She nods, jerky, like she’s trying to process it. He takes a step towards her and she nods, vigorously, but she’s chewing her lip and it’s clear that she’s still thinking, so he waits.

“When I left you at Cavella, it was because…” she pauses, tries to put her thoughts in order. “I thought that you did not love me back, did not love me for who I was. I thought you were trying to change me. And then, later, I realized – how could you know that I loved you, when I did not realize it myself?”

“Esca,” he whispers, “my brave, beautiful Esca,” and she twitches; he had said that before, when they were being hunted, and for a moment he is transported back to that place, to the biting cold and misery of it, to the defeat he felt when Esca stepped away from him, rejecting The Eagle – but it had never been about The Eagle for Esca, and he understands that now.

 “I would like to be yours, if you would have me,” he admits to her, the wind making her hair swirl and pulling at his tunic. They are alone on his property and he feels no shame, thinks the pines and the wheat fields and the river stones know him better than any person and will not judge him for admitting the secrets of his heart. “It is in my heart that I would serve you, Esca.”

She scowls so fiercely that he steps back. “I do not want a slave,” Esca snaps and Marcus shakes his head, because that’s not what he means.

“I – I wish –” It’s enormous and it’s terrifying, to walk forward and then to kneel before her, and instantly everything is _right_ , and then her hand falls on the back of his neck and he sighs in contentment, in approval.

“I want this,” Marcus whispers, and hears Esca’s answering sigh, can sense her nodding, can sense her agreement.

It’s the proverbial baring of the throat, the submitting to the alpha, and he feels… _right._

\---

Summer comes suddenly; the heat and the stillness of the air makes Esca restless, though Marcus has endured far worse. He thinks that she is a cold-weather animal, a wolf uncomfortable with the sun; she shies away from it, but he bathes in it, trying to forget the grey feelings of Caledonia, of being hunted.

Sometimes it is too hot to work, and they lay down and hold each other, Esca in a thin undyed tunic and Marcus only in his braccae. The air is thick and makes Esca sweat, so she shifts away from his arms, turns to stare into his face with her eerie silver eyes, her body one long curving line.

They have not made love yet, have only kissed and held each other; Marcus is afraid and unsure, and Esca is inexperienced, so they stall, making excuses. Part of Marcus wants to rush, wants to feel her, to have her. But part of him wants to savor this time, when their love is new and spring like, because he knows he’ll never have this again.

When it thunderstorms, the sound loud and angry and the lightning a welcome knife through this heat, Esca turns to look at him, silver eyes hooded.

His own eyes drift; down to the peaks of her nipples, hard against the rough linen. Marcus can see the outline of her ribs and hips, can see the hint of her flat stomach; but it is the dark patch of hair that the cloth hints at that intrigues him.

When he looks back at her face, she is watching him and he flushes; she turns away, presses her back to him and he wonders if he’s done something wrong, but then she takes his hand, her small fingers wrapped around his wrist, and fits it over the swell of her breast.

“Esca,” he breathes; he can feel her nipple through the cloth, hard already, and he feels himself harden in his braccae. “Are you sure?”

She nods, still faced away – is it a challenge? He can’t tell, doesn’t know, doesn’t want to be tested. Instead he sweeps her heavy hair away from her neck, beaded with sweat, and kisses her, dragging his lips across her skin until she shivers.

Marcus goes slowly, kissing down her spine until her tunic gets in the way, teasing her nipple through the cloth, and she gets impatient, writhing against her, her breath coming in short, sudden gasps.

“Marcus,” she wheedles and he grins at her, tugging the tunic off one shoulder to reveal more skin.

He stops, for a moment, because Esca’s skin – her back, her arms, her shoulders, her neck – is covered in swirling blue lines, and he almost thinks that he can read them, but they twist out of sight, out of his understanding.

He’s always wanted to know what her ink looks like but it’s still a surprise, a reminder of Esca’s duality; the young, freckled girl and the painted warrior are one.

She twists, turns to face him, and her eyes are very dark, like charcoal. Marcus kisses her, licks his way into her mouth and traces her teeth and she nips at his lips, impatient.

But he goes slow, perhaps weighed down by the summer heat, by the thunderstorm and the rain pattering on the roof; and he is gentle, because he is not like her, not swift like a river and fierce like a hawk and determined like a wolf. Each touch is reverent, is worshipful.

It works, because he’s thumbing a nipple through her tunic and she’s sighing into his mouth, and his hand creeps down, tracing the long line of her, from ribcage to hip and then to ass and thigh. Her tunic ends here, but he pauses, savoring the feel of her skin, of her shapely legs. Then he sneaks a hand beneath her tunic and she shifts, trying to accommodate him – but he needs no help to find the wet heat between her legs.

Marcus has been with a women before, knows roughly what to do, so when his fingers graze against her clit and Esca yelps, he grins and she wrinkles her nose, canting her hips up impatiently.

“This should come off,” he requests, plucking at her tunic; in a flash, it’s off, and she’s settling back on the pallet.

He has to pause, to drink in the sight of her; small and pert breasted, eyes dark and hair long and tangled about her, the dark patch of hair between her legs and her flat stomach.

“You – you too,” she orders, and he undoes the ties of his braccae; she tugs them off and then flushes, and he blushes too, because his cock is hard and heavy between his legs, curving up to his stomach.

“Oh,” she says, brushing the head with a gentle finger and he groans, because it’s too much.

“Esca,” he says, “you have to stop or this won’t work. Please?” so she relents, settling back to watch him.

He fits himself over her, letting her get used to the feel of him, the feel of his cock against her cunt, and kisses her, sweet and slow, until she’s shifting beneath him and it’s too much, so he draws back a little, tweaking a nipple and ghosting kisses down the length of her body.

He knows she’s impatient because she huffs when he does this, and he can almost hear her – _I won’t break –_ but then he reaches her cunt and she stills and looks up at him, frowning.

“Marcus,” she says, “Marcus, what are you doing?”

He nudges her legs apart and ducks to kiss her cunt, and she shudders.

“Marcus, you don’t have to do this,” her voice is urgent, but she’s clutching the pallet and gritting her teeth, and she _wants_ it, he knows. “I know – I know it’s shameful in your culture.”

Marcus shakes his head, because when it comes to him and Esca, there is no shame, but he can never articulate that, can never explain it.

“I want too,” he says instead. “Do you?”

She nods, so he spreads her, licks until she’s shuddering and threading her hands through his hair and pressing him down into her, hips jerking up.

She tastes sweet, but tangy, like summer fruit, and he darts his tongue into her, slowly pushing past any slight resistance, and she whines, wanting it – he obliges, thrusting his tongue in and out, because he wants to hear that whine.

With one hand Marcus trails his fingers over her clit, then presses down, and she cants her hips up, desperate. He presses down, still tonguing her open, and she stiffens.

He knows she’s close, because it’s been a while, because her wetness is coating his face and she’s making incredible sounds, breathy gasps and whimpers, and when she finally does come she cries out and his heart sings with it, wants her to make that sound again and again and again.

When Esca stops shuddering and opens her eyes, he’s smiling down at her. Unsteady, she pushes up to kiss him, to lick her taste off of his face and from his lips, and then she wraps a hand around his cock and tugs.

“I want you,” she tells him, unashamed, and he nods, presses a finger inside of her and then another, and she’s not tight enough that it will hurt; she’s relaxed, from his mouth, and he nods, shaking, hoping it won’t hurt.

Esca wraps a hand around his erection and guides him into her; Marcus braces himself over her and when he thrusts in, gentle, his arms shake.

She is tight, and wet, and he loves her so much that it’s almost painful.

Marcus pauses, giving her time to adjust, but Esca just smiles and nods – _move_ , her lips say – so he thrusts, pulling out and then thrusting in, and soon she’s moving her hips to meet him, hands scrabbling over his back. He’s half supporting himself and half sprawled on top of her, and she’s kissing the side of his neck, biting him, marking him, dragging her nails down his spine.

It doesn’t last very long, because he’s wanted this in some form since he saw her in the arena, years before, and he comes with a sigh and shudders against her, grateful when her arms loop around him automatically.

Outside, thunder booms and the sky is dark, but he does not care; the world could end and he does not care, because he loves Esca, and she loves him back.

\---

They have sex almost everyday after that, and it is quickly apparent that Esca is in charge. Marcus does not mind, loves it when she rides him, proud like a queen, naked with her hair long down her back and her breasts cupped in his hands.

At night, he sleeps in front of her, reassured by her hand on the back on his neck, anchoring him, telling him _this is safe, this is safe, I am here Marcus and you are safe._ She will run a hand from the back of his neck to the base of his spine to calm him, to quiet his shaking, and he will subside, eager for her to wrap an arm around him or to throw a leg over his own and become quiet in sleep.

 

Summer is long, and more often than not Esca will disappear for the entire day, returning with an armful of game or a basketful of what she has foraged. She’s quick with her bow and arrow, quick with a sword and a knife, and Marcus works in the fields and mends any fences. It’s an easy system, and for a time Marcus thinks that the rest of the world has vanished, that it’s only them. The river keeps them company and the tall pines guard them, and when Marcus goes to kneel by Esca’s feet, he feels no shame. Eventually he comes to think nothing of it.

 

It doesn’t cause as much tension as he thought, this want of his. There are times when Esca is uncomfortable and he is unsure; he doesn’t want to be a slave, is afraid of remembering what happened in the Seal Village, and whenever Esca’s face closes off he knows she is remembering her time as a slave.

She has scars on her back; Marcus had forced him to leave when he found that out, so angry that someone had dared lash his Esca that he had fled to the barn and watched Aodh and the new colt, Brigan, interact.

Esca had eventually called him inside, and had ordered him to kneel while she ate; she kept one hand on the base of his neck and eventually he forgot to be angry, forgot everything but Esca touching him.

But it’s difficult, because it’s not in Esca’s nature to be gentle, but it’s not in Marcus’s nature to be sure, so they struggle. She lashes out and he collapses in on himself; they will not talk and Marcus will loose himself in his work, will think about the sky being held up by the branches of the trees, will think about the ground being pinned down by his feet, and wonder why Esca wants him.

Sometimes he will go to her of his own accord, will kneel by her feet and not move until she asks him too. Sometimes she will press him against the wall of the house and kiss him with more ferocity than he ever expects, then shove him down to kiss her cunt, to finger her open so she can take him right then and there.

One day she goes to the market and comes back wearing a pine-green dress, and Marcus immediately sinks to his knees, bowing his head so she can rest a dainty hand on his neck before she tugs him up by his hair.

They fuck in the open field, Esca riding him still in her new green dress, the skirts hitched up and his hands on her thighs, and she bares her teeth at him and orders him _Don’t come until I say you can_ so he thrusts up and bites his lip, because he wants, and only when she is finished does she give him permission.

It’s better this way, because he comes so hard he whites out; but he makes sure she always comes first, because he wants to serve her in everyway.

One day she asks him why he likes it and he struggles, can’t quite put it into words and ends up answering with _it makes me feel safe_ when the reality is, it’s so much more than that.

But what he can’t say, he shows her, in his submission, in his gentle kisses and gentler touches, in the way his smile lingers when he sees her, and he knows that she knows, and it’s enough.

\---

Esca’s tattoo reaches her waist; Marcus has traced every line of it, trying to read it. Sometimes he sees what could be The Eagle; other times, it’s a hawk. Sometimes he sees what is a river, and he wonders if this symbolizes Esca or marks what happened at the river, where she gained her freedom. When he asks her what it means, Esca smiles at him.

“A man named Bil did it,” she says, wrapped in his arms. They’re stretched out on the pallet and it’s fall now, so the fire’s going, casting shadows on her face.

“Bil? Was he Selgovae?” and she nods, so Marcus says: “He stayed here, briefly over the winter.”

“Ah,” Esca says, smiling. “You know, he knew that I loved you from the story alone. I think he included it; that’s the story it tells.”

“What?” Marcus says, because he doesn’t understand.

“It’s about a slave who fell in love with her master,” Esca murmurs; she’s drowsy and she presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “That, and what happened across the wall, and afterwards.”

“But what about the master who fell in love with his slave?” Marcus asks, and Esca laughs, breath hot against his skin.

 

When fall comes, they collect harvest; it’s much better than the first year, and Marcus finds himself beaming, stupidly proud of it, of the harvest and the fact that he and Esca did this together.

He likes fall best, because the leaves turn red and the days grow long and crisp, and Esca starts wearing braccae again. He loves her in those clothes, likes the familiarity of it, and is surprised when she remarks on it.

“I’m not very good at being a girl,” Esca is resting a hand on her stomach when she says this, and she wrinkles her nose; she’s _upset_ , so Marcus goes to her.

“By whose standards?” He asks slowly. She’s sitting on a bale of hay and whittling, waiting for him to finish mixing grain for the horses, but this is important, so he waits until she shrugs.

“Everyone’s, I guess. Certainly Rome’s.” She bites her lip, confused. “It’s easier to be a boy sometimes. Safer. I’m good at it.”

“Would you rather be a boy?” Marcus is curious; he loves men, loves the strength of them, loves the weight of them, the stubble and their huge hands. But he loves women, loves their breasts and their dainty wrists and beautiful hair, loves the sound of their voice.

“I…” Esca fidgets and Marcus wonders, wonders if she knows that he doesn’t care what she is as long as she’s Esca; he will love her despite gender, despite age, despite illness or disability and despite race and culture.

“I like aspects of both,” Esca admits. “But I’d rather be whatever you’d have me as,” and Marcus laughs.

“You have it all wrong,” he admits to her. “I’d rather be whatever you’d have me as; boy, girl, or both, I don’t mind. I just want you.”

For once it’s the right thing to say; she relaxes against him, smiling, and he’s glad, so glad, that she lets him take care of her like this.

\---

By late fall, they are no longer alone. Bands of Celts seek them out on nimble ponies; Marcus even gets a mare from one of them. But he does not like these visitors, for their hair is white with lime and they are painted with woad; they carry spears and they speak to Esca in their hoarse, guttural tongue. It’s clear Marcus isn’t invited to these meetings, so he watches from aware, gripping his belt-knife and wondering if he’ll ever feel safe around painted people.

One meeting, the band’s leader presses a spear into Esca’s hands and she scowls and gives it back, shaking her head. They leave soon afterwards, cantering away on their painted horses, and Marcus goes to Esca.

By the look on her face, she’s furious; he kneels immediately, not afraid of her anger so much as wanting to calm her. He’s long since figured out that this is not just for him, that she gets comfort from placing a hand on his neck as much as he does.

“They’re all war parties,” Esca says finally, and she hauls Marcus up; he’s grateful, because it’s snowing lightly, snowflakes landing in Esca’s hair and on her parted lips. “The tribes are going to war.”

He panics, jerks away from her and stares, the snowflakes swirling in his wake. She regards him calmly, face closed off, arms crossed over her chest.

“Are – are you going with them?” He demands, and her face clears.

He thinks, later, that she thought he was worried about Rome, concerned about the war, and that his question clarified things.

“No,” she says shortly, but she’s smiling, so he smiles back, unsure why, but grateful.

 

It’s only later that night that he understands. Esca turns to him and takes his hand, pressing it against her stomach, and he obeys, spreading his fingers until he can almost span her entire waist.

“Marcus,” she says, laughing, and her eyes are silver and warm when he looks at her. He doesn’t understand, shakes his head, so she leans into to kiss him, the corners of her mouth turning up.

“Pregnant women do not go to war,” she tells him.

It takes him a minute; he smiles absently down at her, and then he _feels_ it click; his heart stutters against his ribs and he gasps, looking down at her stomach with renewed wonder.

“You’re… you’re sure?”

She grins, languid in the heat of the fire, and snuggles up to him.

“I’m sure.” And then, as an afterthought: “I would not go to war anyway. I would not leave you again.”

 _I belong with you_ is what she doesn’t say, but he hears it and kisses her, trying to say: _me, too._

**Author's Note:**

> Tacitus did talk about how a woman led the Brigantes, but he never named her; the famous Brigante queen, Cartimandua (AD 43-69), was actually loyal to Rome and one hell of a badass, but Tacitus didn’t represent her as such in his writings, probably because she had the nerve to rule in her own right and also divorced her husband (Venutius) in favor of his young (hotter?) shield bearer, Velloctus. For the purposes of the fic, let’s pretend Cartimandua wasn’t loyal to Rome. Also the Histories doesn’t actually describe but Cartimandua looked like. Poetic license.
> 
> Because I needed to mess with Esca’s age, seven years didn’t pass between the fall of the Brigantes and when she’s purchased by Marcus. Since the start of the movie takes place in 140 AD, in this timeline, the Brigantes would have fallen in 137 AD. I allowed a year for Marcus to heal, so they march off in summer, 141 and then I’m sure return the Eagle in spring 142 AD. Esca would be seventeen by then, placing her birth in 125 AD.
> 
> If Cunoval died in 137 AD, sixty-eight years after Cartimandua’s death, it’s feasible (in this verse) that he’s her grandson, and Esca is her great-grand daughter.
> 
> I relied pretty heavily on the fic The Fine Line Between by Carmarthen for the tattooing practice, since no one knows how it was actually done.
> 
> Aodh is a Gaelic name that means Fire; Duff is a Gaelic name that means black. Bil, as previously mentioned, means sword or halberd.
> 
> visit me on [tumblr!](http://marnz.tumblr.com/) prompts welcome.


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